


Pavlov's Dog: Deleted Scenes

by RiverK



Category: El Mariachi Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, CIA fuckery, Deleted Scenes, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-26
Updated: 2004-12-26
Packaged: 2020-02-26 01:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverK/pseuds/RiverK
Summary: Deleted scenes fromPavlov's Dog; aborted AUs from an AU.





	Pavlov's Dog: Deleted Scenes

And finally, FOUR MONTHS after posting the fic itself, I post the fic's deleted scenes. My genius astounds me. Not. *hurts self*

Anyhoo, this here's the collection of deleted scenes from _Pavlov's Dog_ that I'd promised oh so long ago. I'd hate to impose, but I'm afraid the piece I'll be posting won't make much sense unless one reads _Pavlov's Dog_.

Link:  
[Pavlov's Dog](http://www.livejournal.com/users/riverkwago/13541.html)

 **Title:** Pavlov's Dog: Deleted Scenes  
 **Pairing:** Sands/OMC, Sands/El, Sands/Ajedrez  
 **Rating:** R-13  
 **Disclaimers:** Sands, et al. belong to Robert Rodriguez, et al. I own zilch. Well, the OMC's kinda mine, but mostly he owns himself. No money has been made. Promise.  
 **Summary:** Deleted scenes from _Pavlov's Dog_ ; aborted AUs from an AU.

  
Just to avoid confusion, each scene is an AU in itself and is not connected to the other scenes. Tenchu tenchu! ^_^

 

 **Scene 1. Day/Interior. Sands’s room, Barillo compound. 7:04 a.m.**  
Raul is on the other side of the bed, his back to him, curled up tight. Sands shakes the dullness of sleep away with a forceful blink. The clock on the wall says that it’s seven in the morning. Raul is cast in yellow sunlight and lightly flecked with blood.

Shit. Blood. Never a good sign.

“Raul,” he hisses.

A whimper and a twitch.

“Raul!” Louder this time, because he cannot shake him to wake him up.

Raul shoots up with a cry. Stumbles off the bed. His eyes have been bandaged over, and the gauze is soaked through with blood. Sands swears loudly.

With frantic and outstretched arms, Raul gropes for the sound of Sands’s voice.

“In the bed, fuckmook. Down here,” Sands says. A part of him squirrels this moment away for future reference; something to laugh at once the shock wears off.

“S-sands?”

Raul bends over and skims quivering hands over the bed until he bumps Sands’s arm. Fingers snake up the bony length, until they reach neck and face.

“No, it’s fucking Stephen Hawking.” He spits out Raul’s fingers.

“Jesus Christ,” Raul chokes out. “Oh holy Mary, oh fuck.” He loses his balance and sinks back into the bed, shaking. He speaks in perfect, American English, liberally laced with Long Island and panic.

Sands frowns. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Raul runs his hands over his face, pausing over the gauze bandages taped over his eyes. He gasps and jerks backwards. “Oh my God.”

“I thought you didn’t speak English, Raul.”

He rubs blood-slick fingers against each other and gathers the silence into the desperate breaths he draws in. “I do.”

Sands rolls his eyes. “Yes, I believe we’ve established that.”

“My real name’s Danny Castillo. I- I work for the CIA.”

“And they caught you.”

Castillo nods and swallows audibly. “And they caught me.” He takes long, slow breaths and runs a trembling, bloodstained hand through his hair.

Sands’s laughter jangles in his own ears.

“We should start a club.”

***

 **Scene 2. Night/Interior. Sands’s room, Barillo compound, 9:45 p.m.**  
The first time Raul actually _looks_ at him, it is a shock, and he feels his cheeks heat up with an insane, immeasurable delight. Something so intense that he feels his throat close up and tears prick the inside of his eyes.

It is a boon.

Raul’s gaze is startled but obtuse. It is as though he is surprised that Sands is, in fact, sentient. A human being like everyone else, although a little frayed at the edges. And Raul doesn’t quite seem to understand how this could be.

Despite that, the acknowledgement hits Sands like an exceptionally powerful drug, and he bites his lip.

Before, Sands would have deep-throated a gun and then squeezed the trigger at the very thought. These days though, Sands isn’t in much of a condition to handle guns.

Raul. A slow-witted, lead-tongued boy who does what he is told simply because he is too stupid to do anything else. The one who clothes him and bathes him and feeds him, touching him with dispassionate matter-of-factness. His most constant companion from behind the thick black of lowered lashes.

_Ah, shit._

And when Raul leans in to pick him up, his breath is hot against Sands’s lips.

Sands doesn’t think.

Raul’s mouth tastes like spit.

***

 **Scene 3. Day/Interior. Second floor hallway, Barillo compound. 3:00 p.m.**  
El Mariachi, true to form, bursts into the scene in your standard blaze of bullets and glory. Acrobatic, slick, bright as a burst of darkness in the desert night. And his two little friends aren’t too bad either.

Sands watches them from a window on the second floor, where Raul had parked him and forgotten him in the confusion. It is a siege, all out, against three men with guns and guitars. Three very deadly men with guns and guitars. And at the very least, Raul can shoot a gun, even though his aim is crap.

Sands, for all his experience, can’t even hold one anymore.

The mariachi is striding across the courtyard, shooting left and right, pretty as you please, and meeting his mark every time. His nonchalance sets Sands’s teeth on edge.

A bullet shatters the glass window, and behind him, the goon holding the Uzi topples to the floor. Sands has to admit; for a musician, El’s a decent shot.

The sudden jolt of his own breathing startles Sands. He stares at the black and crimson hole in the middle of his chest for five endless seconds. Watches the red stain spread. He grins at the mariachi just as his vision begins to dim. For the first time in an eternity, Sands _feels_.

***

 **Scene 4. Night/Interior. Back room in an anonymous shop in Culiacan, Mexico. 10:22 p.m.**  
The CIA find Sands on the Day of the Dead, unconscious on an operating table in an anonymous backroom somewhere in Culiacan, Mexico, surrounded by the corpses of Barillo and his men. There is a tiny, shallow scratch between the top of his shoulder blades, right below the base of his neck, but otherwise, he is unhurt. There is only one other survivor.

Ajedrez smiles at the Americans as they come in. She holds the gun to her temple.

She pulls the trigger.

-End-  



End file.
